Jesus said not to worry. He never bought a house.
It’s an interesting convergence for me: right now my partner and I are buying a house for the first time, and right now Harbor is studying the Sermon on the Mount, in which Jesus says, “Do not worry about your life.” Oh, and also, “Do not worry about tomorrow.”
At the time of this writing, tomorrow is the inspection of the house we’re buying.
This doesn’t add up—and these are just the first-world problems of a cis straight white dude gainfully employed in late-stage capitalism. How can the words “Do not worry” land, even when they’re coming from Jesus, with folks around the world who are facing war, hunger, oppression?
I don’t know. And I wouldn’t dare quote these verses to someone experiencing stress caused by violence or calamity. But as we spend time with this sermon, I think it’s worthwhile to grapple with these very questions. Can Jesus’ instructions to resist worry carry any life-giving meaning for those who are really suffering? Whose anxieties connect to something more threatening than making a massive purchase and gearing up for a cross-country move?
I think they can. Mainly because the people Jesus preached these words to in Matthew’s Gospel were by and large poor people being oppressed by a military empire. He wasn’t kicking it with billionaires whose yachts might have gotten scratched.
What does he have to say about our internal lives that could possibly help in the face of such systemic forces? Let’s briefly explore what he is saying about worry in this passage (Matt. 6:24-34):
God takes care of birds and grass, so God will take care of you
You can’t actually do any concrete good by worrying
If you focus on what actually matters, the basic needs of life will be worked out
Worry, which is future-oriented, prevents you from being present to the here and now
I’m not here to sell you on this being a perfect or timeless teaching that will save you from all worry. But my personal take on these ideas is that the 2nd and 4th points above are really helpful, practical reminders. Worrying does not help me—in fact, it hurts me.
The other two points are thornier. Easily weaponizable and ripe for gaslighting purposes. “Oh you’re worrying? Must not have enough faith in God’s provision. Must not be seeking after righteousness.”
Let’s go ahead and throw that kind of thinking out the window. But that doesn’t mean we have to throw out Jesus’ words with it (though you can if you want to!). I think there’s still something there. God loves the birds and grass. What a thought. It’s a mysterious love that can’t be seen but, I think, can be felt. I think I feel love from somewhere when I am in nature.
And in the same intangible way, I live in divine love. We all do, whether you’re as privileged as I am or identify more with those to whom Jesus preached: the poor, the dispossessed, the rejected.
It doesn’t solve my problems. It doesn’t pay for repairs on a house. It doesn’t dismantle systems of oppression. But right here, right now, we are loved. If we can be present to that, surely our worry loses some of its power.
